Intruder
by TrippingOnStrings
Summary: The Boss is stirred by the sounds of someone moving within her apartment, and in a panic she realizes she is not alone. Someone was in her house. In a frantic scramble, she locates her gun, and begins the journey to confront the intruder.


A sound chased her from her dream, yanking her into an upright position with a panicked jolt. She sat upon her bed, senses a drowsy fog, eyes heavy with sleep as they stared into the haze of a dark room, disoriented. For a moment she lingered like that, posture frozen as she gazed into nothing, deafened by the symphony of silence that buzzed against blurred senses like muffled static.

The ghost of a noise reached her again, a wordless voice from creaking floorboards warning her that she was not alone.

Palms sifted midst wild creases in soft linen, tossing her sheets away from naked legs in a maddened rush. A hand groped empty air for a moment, until nails gripped into the smooth wood of her nightstand for leverage, blindly grabbing for something resting on its surface. It was a brief heartbeat of desperate searching, until fingertips greeted the familiar edges of cold steel.

Finding a good grip on her pistol, she had pulled herself off of the mattress and felt the ground firm beneath bare feet. The pace of her heart rose within her ears, a swelling roar of pumping blood as adrenaline burst through her veins in a violent torrent of exhilirating energy. She raised her gun before her as she stepped into the inky black of an empty hallway, body poised like a snake as she readied to confront her intruder.

Sound was the only hint to follow, a distant clatter of guidance. Her footsteps were slow as she trailed through a dormant house, attempting to stay quiet as she blundered sightlessly through the darkness. Tired eyes had hardly been given proper time to adjust, and she was barely able to focus the fuzzy shape of a decorative plant standing in her way, giving a curse beneath her breath as she dodged around it.

She could not grasp the feeling of unease churning in the depths of her stomach like ravenous insects, could not explain the gun trembled in her grip. She was accustomed to the horrors of gang war; she reveled in the excitement of firefights erupting around her, took pleasure when the sweet blood of revenge bloomed from the limp corpses of her enemies, relished her dangerous lifestyle with the utmost enjoyment. She had seen the face of death when fire kissed her skin, when it hovered over her comatose form and threatened to remove the tubes that kept her breathing, and she sneered in defiance.

So, why was her pulse thundering so loudly in her head? Why could she not steady her tempo of gasping, anxious breaths? If this was nothing more than a mere burglar picking the wrong house to target, she had no reason to choke on the dread that crimped her esophagus in vice-like teeth.

She felt utterly vulnerable. Alone, she stumbled through the night, unaware of what might await her in the shadow of every corner, senses numbed with complete exhaustion. Her tired mind played tricks in the blackout, violating her imagination with twisted amusement as she grew paranoid at what lurked at the end of this journey.

A glow of light became visible, crawling along the walls in frosty tongues. It was a dim luminescence, valiantly battling against the tide of oily dark that attempting to consume it. She felt herself take a brief pause of recognition, trailing after the sterling streams as they counted her steps towards the kitchen.

The source of the beacon was a comforting reassurance that she would find the culprit of this chaos. She could hear someone, or something, stir movement in reckless ignorance, their shadow appearing like a distorted haunt along the smoke of night that choked the air. They were close.

The recognizable arch of the kitchen's entrance appeared in her vision, a broad gap outlined in fingers of light. Her shoulders jarred mechanically as she pressed her spine against the wall, chest rising as she took in an inhale of preparation. Her grip on her handgun tightened until her knuckles paled at the extertion, a finger twitching restlessly against the trigger.

She felt her muscles contract, sinews straining as they braced themselves for ambush. A steady breath fell from her lips, and then another. Her body grew tense with anticipation, counting the seconds before they burst into movement.

Legs exploded in motion as she sprung into the kitchen doorway, blocking the exit with a rigid posture, her fingertip eagerly dancing against the trigger of her readied pistol.

She found herself staring down the barrel in confusion as an achingly familiar face turned to stare at her from where he was leaning into the refrigerator, a hand slowly drawing a beer from one of the shelves. A brow raised over the frame of his glasses as he took a glance at the gun pointing threateningly at him, before she lowered it against her hip, mouth parting with an indignant exclamation.

"_Johnny_!"

"Yo, what's up?" Gat raised himself from his stooping position, cradling the bottle casually in his palm, and cast an infuriatingly neutral nod in her direction. He lifted a foot, clad in a polished dress shoe, gingerly kicking the door of the fridge shut behind him.

While a soothing sense of relief bubbled within her gut, she could not ignore the heated needles of irritation that prickled under her skin.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?" She demanded. While she wasn't shocked that he had let himself in uninvited, as he made a ritual of doing so a few days out of the week, she would have liked an explanation as to why he felt the need to wake her up in a panic in the middle of the night.

"Couldn't sleep. I got hungry."

A swift glance found that the pantry had been raided, contents scattered ungraciously along the countertop. He had seemed to settle with a bag of potato chips,  
though, as it was set aside next to a plate carrying what looked to be a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Johnny looked as if he were about to speak, but then he faltered, taking a second to scan her attire, before his eyes found her scowling face again. She then realized she was wearing nothing more than a tight camisole, and the threads of lacey fabric that skimpily hugged her waist in the form of panties. Heat pooled into her cheeks in uncomfortable waves.

"Sorry I woke you," He offered an apology, distracting her from her current clothing dilemma. He stole a brief look at the pistol hanging at her side, the surfaces of his glasses glinting in the beams of sterling moonlight that tip-toed behind kitchen windows.

"You were gonna shoot me, weren't you?"

"I'm still pretty goddamn tempted," She lashed, her words a hiss between gritted teeth. Johnny raised his hand defensively like he was shielding himself from her furious tone, flinching as if the unmasked indignation in her voice had dealt a physical blow. Her anger wasn't directed solely at him-she knew she could never stay mad at him for long, anyway-rather on the fact that she had been woken up so abruptly, it was birthed from the discordant womb of the fear she was still trying to shake off.

She shook her head, stirring unkempt strands of hair in the wake of her jerking skull, trying to chase off the emotions that still numbed her wits and whirled behind her vision. Her fingers greeted her face, pinching the knot between furrow brows as she fought to ease the buzzing of chattering thoughts that swarmed like invasive locusts.

Why could she not get a hold of herself?

"Hey," A hand on her skin gently led her back into reality, coaxing her out of her hysteria with a soft voice. Johnny wrapped slender digits wrapped around her arm, grasp tender, but reassuring. "You're alright, I promise. I won't let anyone hurt you, okay?"

There was an ache in his voice, a painful reminder that he had already broken that vow once. He had lost Aisha.

She stared upon his worried expression, finding his very presence comforting. For a moment she just looked upon him, frozen, drawing a simple form of calm from his sturdy grip on her arm. She slowly leaned into the warmth of him, a palm clutching at the fabric of his white undershirt.

"I'm not going to be able to fall back asleep," She mouthed against his chest. Exhaustion was a only a lingering memory, and promise of sleep had been chased away by her anxiety. Perhaps it was a good thing, as she was no longer partial to having happy dreams; she should have been grateful that she would not be forced to endure nightmares tonight.

"Come join me on the couch, then. I'll even share half of my sandwich. I wouldn't mind the company," He said. She lifted her head at his proposal, the pondering the idea as she studied his face.

"Deliverance is on," He added, as if trying to persuade her to not leave him by his lonesome.

"We've seen that movie hundreds of times."

"Oh, come on. You fucking love Burt Reynolds," Johnny turned his back, dismissing any further argument with a wave of a hand. He fetched his sandwich from where it sat upon the countertop, before sweeping past her and toward the darkness of the living room. "Now get your ass on the couch, I don't wanna miss any more of the movie."

"Can I at least put on some pants?" She complained as she slowly followed suit, wandering after him as he followed the muffled voices of the television, their path shown by dim flickers of light blinking images into the night.

"No."


End file.
